


Exposed

by The Red Room (TheRedRoom)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Comedy, More characters to be added, Science Fiction, a lot darker, starts off as comedy but gets darker, will become borderline horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-08-30 21:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8549458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedRoom/pseuds/The%20Red%20Room
Summary: There's a shady organisation that's kidnapping scientists for malicious purposes. Cristiano meets a man without any memories. Arjen is a CIA agent haunted by the death of a friend. Thomas is a doctor looking for a comrade gone missing in action. And all of them are running out of time.





	1. The Stranger Without a Past

**Author's Note:**

> As a heads up, I'm a Yank. I'm not sure what the issue is with my word processor, but I made sure that my region and language settings are set to the US, so I'm not sure why everything is being autocorrected to British English.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cristiano meets a stranger who might be suffering from amnesia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I split what was originally the first chapter in two, and made several edits to both.

It isn't very cold in Madrid, but it was raining very hard that particular autumn night; therefore, it was cold, or so Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro thought.  
  
He was just returning home from a long day of work in the marketing department. Another long day of dealing with Spaniards. While his Spanish had become pretty fluent, he knew some of his colleagues still had difficulty with understanding his accent from time to time.

He had stopped by the library by the outskirts of the city to return a couple books and would have borrowed a few more if it hadn't unexpectedly started to rain; it had been mostly sunny all day. Heading into the rain, he cursed his morning choice to not check the weather forecast. Now his expensive suit was bound to be damaged.

His car was parked by a sidewalk that bordered a steep, muddy ditch. Across the street was a bus stop where a very short man shivered in the rain. Cristiano could only assume that he wasn't a local because the last line had long since departed, and no bus was going to come until morning. He clearly had been standing there for awhile now, soaked to the skin.

He was muttering something under his breath, a phrase, over and over again. Now Cristiano had encountered all sort of people on the streets, and from past experience, this was the sort of person that he should avoid.

Walking right past the shivering man, he crossed the street. He was halfway across when blinding lights illuminated the street. When he turned, he realised that a large van was speeding straight at him, with no intent of stopping. The driver honked thrice as if it were perfectly legal to run red lights as long as you warned pedestrians. Well, fuck him.

" _Foda-se!_ " Cris yelled as he dove onto the sidewalk, just in time. To make matters worse, the concrete was slippery with rain and he slid forward into the ditch. With his fancy new suit now covered in mud, Cristiano cursed loudly at the raining sky.

He got back up and tried to climb out of the ditch, but the muddy ground gave way under his weight, and he slid to the bottom again. Cris tried a few more times with increasing desperation, but he ended up just displacing a large pile of mud.

This was going nowhere. If he called out loud enough, would the man across the street at the bus stop hear him?

"Help! I'm stuck! Someone, anyone, please help!"

He waited for a few moments, and sure enough, he heard splashing as someone walked across the street. The man peered over the ditch, looking down at Cristiano curiously.

"Er, I'm a bit stuck. Can you help me get out of here?" he asked.

To his relief, the man nodded. Saying nothing, he crouched down on the sidewalk and extended a pale hand downward.

Cris grasped on to the outstretched hand; he was shocked by how icy it was to the touch. The other man braced himself, and with a heave, he pulled. Cristiano scrambled up the slope as fast as he could in the sticky mud.

His feet sunk into the wet ground, but with the other man's support, he did not slide back in with every step. With a final heave, Cristiano launched himself forward over the steep slope and they both tumbled onto the wet cement. They lay on the sidewalk for a moment, panting. Cris turned to look at the stranger. "Thanks," he said.

The stranger only nodded. He was no longer shivering, but his lips and his fingertips were turning a shade of blue.

Cris felt guilty. Would he just leave this man to die of hypothermia in the rain, after he had just saved him from a muddy ditch?

"You look like you're freezing. Do you need a ride home? There aren't going to be any busses until morning," he offered, getting up off the sidewalk. He pulled the stranger onto his feet.

The man glanced around. "Home?" he whispered, almost too softly for Cris to hear.

"Do you not have a home?" asked Cristiano. Perhaps he was homeless after all.

"I...I don't remember..."

"You don't remember if you have a home?"

The man only frowned, and stepped away from Cristiano.

He sighed. The questions could wait. Right now, the stranger clearly needed to get out of the rain. "Come to my house. You look like you're going to freeze to death."

The shorter man said nothing, but nodded gratefully. Cris led him to his car, mentally groaning about the mud. Not only did he possibly ruin his thousand euro suit for good, but now he was going to have to give his car a good scrubbing. He started up the engine and turned the heat on to maximum.

"Thank you...for everything," the man said from the seat next to him.

"You're the one who helped me first. I'm Cristiano, by the way, but you can call me Cris. What's your name?"

He did not reply immediately, pausing for a moment, thinking very hard. "I'm...my name is..."

"So you don't remember your name either?" He was definitely taking this man to hospital in the morning. It seemed like a case of amnesia.

They remained silent for the rest of the ride home.

~X~

Cristiano really wasn't looking forward to all the mud he would have to scrub in the morning.

Now out of his muddy suit and wet socks, Cris pulled out a shrunken wool sweater and a pair of clean cotton shorts from the back of his closet. He handed them to the stranger before leaving the other man the usage of his heated bathroom. The light flush on his guest's cheeks and the heat that radiated from him indicated that he had developed a fever some time during the ride home.

While his guest changed out of the soggy clothes, Cristiano rummaged through his medicine cupboard for a bottle of aspirin. He put a pill and a glass of water on the bedside table of the guest bedroom where his mother or sisters stayed during their visits to Spain.

The stranger emerged from the bathroom, the shrunken clothing still at least two sizes too large. He appeared ragged and thin. With his legs peeking from underneath the shorts, Cristiano could see the number 10 engraved onto his left calf. Dark bruises stood out starkly around the pale wrists, as if they had been bound too tightly. What on earth had he gone through?

Cris led him over to the guest bedroom. "You can sleep in here."

The shorter man stared blankly at the bed for a few moments before vaguely turning toward Cris. "Thank you."

Either he was too ill to react much, or he was an odd fellow.

"You've got a bit of a fever; here, take this." He handed his guest the aspirin and glass of water. "I'm taking you to hospital tomorrow. And contacting police."

The stranger nodded. He took the medicine and settled into the soft blankets. It wasn't long before he fell fast asleep.

Cris had a long night ahead of him.

~X~


	2. Die Mannschaft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arjen Robben meets Die Mannschaft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited, with new important information.

Robben. Arjen Robben.

The picture of a CIA agent, an accurate shot, and fluent in several languages, including English, Dutch, German, Spanish, Italian, Chinese, and French.

Though he spent most of his childhood in the Netherlands, he moved to the United States as an adolescent and joined the CIA after graduating at the top of his class at Harvard. Ever since, he was often stationed back in Europe.

Now the current president wasn't as keen on playing world police as previous presidents. But the U.S. had to respond when a promising young American chemist who had got a scholarship to study in Germany, Christian Pulisic, went missing.

He was only one scientist out of many who had also disappeared within the past four years.

It started with the kidnapping of Doctor Gary Lineker, a Nobel winning geneticist, in 2013. He had been holidaying in Malta when he went missing from his hotel room. No one had seen him leave, and the windows and doors were locked. Since then, several prominent figures within the scientific community across many fields had also gone missing without a trace.

But not all fields of science were equally affected. Most of those who had gone missing majored in biology, chemistry, or the like, especially genetics. Only a small fraction were physicists or mathematicians.

But Arjen had not been sent to work on the Pulisic case. Instead, he had been sent to help the Germans with another related incident involving a kidnapped scientist in hopes that through investigating this case, more clues could be found about the missing American.

Die Mannschaft was a group of scientists that worked as a superficially separate entity from the German government. In reality, they were another military research organisation. They owned a facility several miles out from Munich, by the edge of the woods. And Robben was assigned to help them with an incident which involved one of Die Mannschaft's members who vanished two nights ago.

"Security's been increased since Merkel's assassination last year. All our workers are specially trained in combat," said the man sitting next to him, driving the car: Joachim Löw, the director of Die Mannschaft's activities.

It was just after the 2017 German elections, when Angela Merkel was taken out by a sniper. The Christian Democrats hat just won by the slightest of margins, a single seat. It was, to say the least, a miracle.

She had been giving a speech when she was shot twice. There was a huge uproar, and Germany was in lockdown. The assassin had been identified as a political dissident who accused the elections of being rigged.

Löw stopped in front of the facility's iron gates, closed off from the public. Waiting at the entrance was a blond man in a lab coat. He was tall and physically impressive, not at all resembling the stereotype of a top scientist. Arjen reckoned that this man could snap him in half with both his brain and his bare hands.

"Doctor Neuer, this is Arjen Robben. And Robben, this is Doctor Manuel Neuer. He'll take you where you need to go," Löw introduced.

"Yes, sir," said Neuer.

"Oh, and Schweinsteiger is going to be a little late," said Löw. "I've got a meeting to go to, so I'll be headed off now."

With that, the director drove away. Neuer signalled for Arjen to follow him.

"I recall Obergefreiter Schweinsteiger's said that you're going to be working with Doctor Müller for this operation," said Neuer as he placed his hand on a scanner to the side of the gate. The heavy iron door slid open just enough for someone to get through. Once they were on the other side, the gate automatically closed.

"Doctor Müller?" Arjen asked as he continued to follow Neuer into a large, concrete building.

"He's a bit of a jokester, but an alright lad," said Neuer. After walking through several hallways, they stopped in front of a door. "Go on in. Doctor Müller's waiting inside."

Arjen opened the door. Inside was an office, sparsely furnished with a couple shelves and a desk covered in papers. A man dressed in a lab coat, presumably Doctor Müller, sat idly at the desk with a bored expression. At the sight of Arjen, he stood up and walked over. The doctor was taller than himself, with curly brown hair and a large, protruding nose.

"Doctor Müller, I'm Arjen Robben, CIA." Arjen stuck out his hand.

The Bavarian grabbed it and shook his hand violently as if he were trying to tear Arjen's arm off. "Hello, Mister Arjen Robben," said Dr. Müller. "Obergefreiter Schweinsteiger told me that you were coming. Speaking of Obergefreiter Schweinsteiger, I wonder what's taking him so long? He said he'd be here to greet you."

"Löw told me he was going to be late, but he didn't specify why."

Müller rolled his eyes. "It doesn't matter why he's late, if he's late, he's not German!"

As they waited for Schweinsteiger, Müller spoke about the history of the place. Arjen found the facts themselves pretty interesting. The research facility was founded during WWII, performing all sorts or experiments. By the time the Nazis surrendered and were forced to turn in all their scientific findings, the facility had already been mostly destroyed, and it was only lightly searched for records. What most did not know was that the buildings at ground level were superficial. All the main laboratories were hidden deep, deep underground, only accessible through a hidden entrance in the forest.

If the Germans had previously known about the unethical tests on other humans that had happened there during the war, he was pretty sure that the facility would have never been rebuilt. But they did not. The dark secrets of the facility would remain hidden until the late 70's.

Eventually, the entrance was discovered by civilians, and the many documents created in the short span of World War II were recovered. By then, the buildings on the surface had already been completely remodelled. The underground facilities were filled in, both because of potential collapse and because of its horrifying past.

"Though this place had been completely torn down and remodelled since, during World War II, they performed live vivisection on political prisoners to test the limits of the human body underground. When I started working here, they told me that the ghosts of the test subjects still haunt this place. If you come here alone at night, you might hear echoes of their screams," said Müller as if that wasn't creepy at all.

Now Arjen wasn't religious nor was he particularly superstitious, but there was something about messing around with the occult that did not settle well with him. Ever since a certain incident in his past that claimed the life of his close friend, he accepted that there were powers in the world beyond the understanding of man. Perhaps, the existence of the supernatural. In a fraction of a second, through his mind flashed the smell of blood, total darkness, Frank Ribéry's broken body...

"You see?" Müller's voice cuts in, pulling him out of his flashback. "Obergefreiter Schweinsteiger's grandfather was one of the Nazis that ran this facility. Several weeks after Germany surrendered, he was found dead, body stuffed in one of the drain pipes by the entrance. They never found out who did it. Rumours say that he began hearing the voices of the dead when the war ended. He would talk to them, too, even if everyone else around him could not see what he was talking to."

"Sounds like a case of trauma-induced schizophrenia to me," Arjen speculated.

"The guilt of his crimes probably weighed in on him and manifested as hallucinations when he developed the disease," agreed the doctor. "He was probably just murdered by one of his own men. We once tried to contact his spirit with a ouija board, but Manu's a pussy Catholic and wouldn't stop freaking out."

"I'd freak out too, and I'm agnostic."

~X~

"What's taking him so long anyway?" complained Doctor Müller, glancing at the clock. They had been waiting for the past forty minutes, and there was still no trace of Schweinsteiger.

"So who is the fellow who went missing? Doctor Özil, or something like that, correct?"

"A Turkish German, Mesut Özil," Müller said, handing Arjen one of the folders on the table. "If he's not going to be here on time, we might as well start with some basic info. Also known as 'The Invisible Man,' or, 'Der Chamäleon.'"

Looking at the photo that was on top of everything else in the folder, Arjen could certainly see why he was called that. His eyes were practically bulging out, like a chameleon.

"He underwent genetic enhancements done by Die Mannschaft. His skin can change colour to blend into the environment, becoming nearly invisible."

"Fucking scientists. You've already recreated Frankenstein's creature, haven't you?"

"We probably didn't," said the doctor.

"What's that supposed to mean, 'probably didn't'?"

"It means that Özil was in Madrid when he was kidnapped just two days ago," Müller replied without replying to the question at all.

Arjen supposed he wasn't getting an answer, so he decided he was just going to play along. "Madrid? What for?"

"You see, he was there to present some findings about genetic modifications at a conference. He worked in Madrid for awhile in the past. Anyway, the night before the conference, he went to a club with one of his old friends from Madrid. Some Sergio Ramos." The doctor pulled another file from the table, this time, with a photo of a Spaniard inside. "He said that he dropped off Özil at his hotel, and that was the last time anyone had seen him. Hotel cameras showed that he never made it inside."

"And you think Ramos might be responsible?" asked Arjen.

Thomas shrugged. "According to the investigation so far, he doesn't even know the difference between New York City and Las Vegas. But he could very well be pretending to be stupid, of course."

Arjen nodded. "Sounds reasona—"

At that moment, the door swung open wide. In strode a severe-looking, uniformed man with ashy hair. Doctor Müller immediately leapt off the desk and stood at attention.

"Obergefreiter Schweini, what kept you?"

~X~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: In an actual tweet, Ramos mistook Las Vegas for New York.


	3. Mission Possible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Schweinsteiger debriefs Müller and Robben about their mission.

"'Schweini'? Gottverdammt, Thomas. It's Schweinsteiger," he corrected, glancing at Arjen. "You must be Arjen Robben."

"I am," he confirmed. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"No need to be so formal. I'm Sebastian—"

"Sebb," snickered Müller behind him.

"—Schweinsteiger, though you can call me—"

"Scweini."

"Shut up, Doctor Müller. As I was saying, you can call me—"

"Pig fucker."

" _Thomas!_ " Schweinsteiger smacked the doctor in the face. Müller fell over, rolling around and clutching his face.

Diving cunt.

"Ow, ow, ow," he moaned in pain, "you'll kill some of my precious brain cells!"

"Brain cells? You haven't got any!"

"If I haven't got any brain cells, then what's controlling my speech if not my left frontal lobe?" challenged Müller.

The "Obergefreiter" (whatever that meant; Arjen was pretty sure that it was a military title) sighed deeply and buried his face into his hands for a few seconds. Then, he looked up apologetically at Arjen. "Please forgive my unprofessional underling here. And forgive my inexcusable lateness."

"Well, what kept you?" The doctor repeated, getting up from the ground and smoothing out his lab coat.

"I was in the toilet."

"Liar," growled Müller at the same time Arjen cheekily commented, "If it took you forty minutes to take a shit, you should seriously consider eating more fibre."

Schweinsteiger stared at him suspiciously. "You're a funny guy."

"For you," Arjen replied. "You were saying, Obergefreiter?"

"Bastian. Call me Bastian," Schweinsteiger requested.

"Bastian," said the Dutchman, which earned a nod.

"Doctor Müller must have told you about Mesut Özil already," Bastian guessed, looking at the folder in Arjen's hands that had been handed over to him by Müller.

"He has," Arjen confirmed. "Are we on a search and rescue mission?"

"Not quite," said Bastian. He shifted through the folders on the table and picked one up. "Chief inspector Casillas is a competent man—"

Arjen broke him off with a cough. "Haha, competent."

Bastian squinted at him. "Are you suggesting that Casillas isn't competent?"

"No, not at all. Quite the opposite, actually," he answered. He was truthful about that, too, but he was pretty sure that Bastian thought he was being sarcastic.

The Obergefreiter continued. "We will leave the initial investigation to him. I'm sure you've heard of the name 'Toni Kroos.'"

"You mean the one who mauled two people to death last Wednesday?"

"Yes, I'm talking about him." Bastian sighed. "He was one of our men, loaned out to Zinedine Zidane at La Fabrica."

La Fabrica was a research institution and university in Madrid that focused on biochemical engineering, while their sister school in Barcelona, La Masia, was oriented toward genetic engineering. The two schools, while sisters, were also fierce rivals. They attracted top scientists from all over the world with state-of-the-art technology and an impressive amount of discoveries, patents, and publications. Zinedine Zidane was the chairman of the board of directors at La Fabrica, and a brilliant scientist himself.

"A year and a half ago, on his way home from Madrid, the airplane he flew on was hijacked by unknown assailants. You remember that incident, don't you?"

"Of course; it's hard to forget that one." Hijacking an airplane from the outside in mid-flight was an impressive feat, he had to admit. Whoever the kidnappers were, they managed to steal Doctor Kroos and crash the plane with no other survivors.

Then last Wednesday, after disappearing from the face of the planet, Toni Kroos turned up again in Madrid. And his re-reappearance was even more bizarre than his kidnapping.

It was evening when he broke through the glass of a cafe downtown. Scared customers reported that he had a crazed, animalistic look as he pounced upon two hapless victims. His teeth were unnaturally sharp and strong, and he tore through them and ate their remains. The national police managed to sedate him, but somehow, he was able to escape the metal bars behind which he was locked. They had to resort to killing him, as the police concluded that he was too dangerous to be kept alive. His body was sent to a lab in La Fabrica to be examined.

It was certainly a most peculiar story, and in a way, reminded Arjen of Frank's death. He, too, had been torn apart by sharp teeth, though there were important differences in the two cases.

"There's actually a very specific reason that you were chosen for this mission, Thomas. Your combat ability is extraordinary. You're also one of our top biochemical engineers, and both Chief Inspector Casillas and Zidane have requested that your help. After all, you were the one who closely monitored Kroos' progress during his genetic enhancements when he was still here."

"Is there something wrong with his body?" Arjen questioned. There was no doubt his brain malfunctioned, but what about the rest of the body? He had heard about the unnaturally sharp teeth, but when he read the news at first, the thought the witnesses might have been exaggerating due to panic. Now, he wasn't so sure about that.

"There have been a number of...external modifications to his body. And they are still trying to figure out the cause and extent of damage to his mind."

"So what are we exactly suppose to do?"

"First, Doctor Müller is to help with the autopsy of Kroos' body. Afterwards, both of you are to look into whatever may uncover anything related to Mesut Özil. More details are in this folder." He handed the said folder over to Müller, who flicked it open. There were more sub folders inside, including a detailed profile of Toni Kroos. "Your mission files themselves are on your phone, through which you will also be receiving objectives and orders. Doctor Müller, I expect that you will make frequent reports. And Robben, I trust that you will keep Thomas out of trouble."

"Yes sir," they both replied.

"You will fly to Madrid tomorrow at 4:00. Doctor Neuer will be your pilot. Go straight to La Fabrica, where Zinedine Zidane will greet you. Use this time in between to prepare yourselves with whatever you need. Any questions?"

"Not any that I can think of asking you right now," said Arjen.

"Doctor Müller?" he prompted. The doctor shook his head. "If you have any questions, contact me. Mission begins now. Good luck."

And with that, Obergefreiter Schweinsteiger left the room.

Arjen and Müller glanced at each other, holding the mission files in their hands.

"I can hardly speak Spanish, so you'll have to translate things for me," said the doctor.

"No problem, Doctor Müller."

"Oh, it's 'Thomas.' No need to call me Doctor Müller!" the Bavarian laughed. "Only Schweini does that, and I don't want to feel like I'm doing this mission with Schweini!"

"All right, Thomas, we have an investigation to make and a scientist to save."

~X~

 


	4. Nosey Neighbour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Cris' guest is too knowledgeable of the world for someone with that level of retrograde amnesia, but there's a reason for that (this is a sci-fi story after all). Please don't take it too seriously, psychology majors.

It was sunny on Sunday morning, but the streets were still wet with last night's rain. Cristiano scrubbed out the remaining mud in his car, his suit in the back. He was going to see if the suit was still salvageable. When he had set out to clean the mud, his guest was sound asleep, fever broken.

"Hey Cris, what's with the mud?"

Cristiano looked up to see his neighbour, Gareth Bale, returning from his morning jog. His hair was tied back in a funny looking knot; everyone knew it was to hide his premature balding.

They were good friends, training at the gym and hanging together often. Gareth hardly spoke a lick of Spanish when he first moved from Wales to Madrid for work a few years ago, so when Cristiano approached him speaking English, they got along immediately.

"Some shithead driver almost ran me over last night; I had to dive into a muddy ditch to avoid turning into roadkill. Ruined my new suit, too."

"You mean the one you bought in New York? What was it, around €1200?"

"That's the one. I'm going to see if Varane can salvage it." Inside, he was still fuming about last night's events. He doubted even Varane, the dry cleaner, could do anything. "How has Sergio been holding up lately, anyway?"

"Better, though he now wants to personally check every nook and cranny of the city."

"He'll probably end up drowned in some sewer."

Sergio Ramos was another gym buddy of theirs. Two—no, three nights ago now, he had gone to a disco with an old friend from Germany, Mesut Özil. Apparently, Özil was some top scientist who had genetically modified himself with chameleon DNA. He was visiting Madrid to attend a scientific conference, but the night before, he disappeared after Sergio had dropped him off at his hotel. Özil was only the latest scientist in a string of disappearances. The story had made headlines all over the world.

The science convention was not cancelled in lieu of what happened, although there was a major increase in security. In fact, it was still going on right now. The increase in security made it a nightmare to navigate in Madrid's downtown for the time being.

Sergio was wracked with guilt after Özil's disappearance as if he were somehow responsible for the incident, no matter how much Cris and Gareth tried to convince him that he was wasn't. "I should have seen to myself that he actually entered the hotel first, especially with the kidnappings!" he had lamented, drowning his sorrows at the bar the next day. This reaction told them just how close he and Özil were before the Turk moved away.

With his car sufficiently clean, Cristiano shut the door. His arm was sore from the constant scrubbing, and he shook it out a little.

"Need any help?" Gareth offered.

"I'm fine, thanks."

"You sure about that, mate? You look half-dead."

"I haven't slept at all." He had spent much of the night tending to the stranger, changing the sheets and soothing his fevered delirium. It was almost dawn when his fever broke, and since then, Cis had been removing mud. And he still had to contact the authorities.

"Get some rest, it's Sunday."

"I don't think I'll be getting much rest anyway," he remarked, thinking about all the things he still had to do. "I've got to check on someone first."

"Someone?" Gareth questioned, but Cristiano had already started walking back into his house.

Once inside, Cris opened the door to the guest bedroom, peering in to check on his guest. The stranger sat propped up by pillows, staring off into blank space. He appeared deep in thought, not noticing Cris' presence as he stepped in.

"You're awake," he said, jolting the man out of his reverie.

"Good morning," the stranger greeted politely.

Cristiano pressed a palm to the other's forehead. It was cool to the touch, with no sign of the fever that wracked his body the night before. "You feeling better?"

"I'm a little tired," the shorter man admitted. He did look quite exhausted; there were dark circles under his eyes and a certain weariness in his voice. The fever seemed to have taken any remaining strength in him.

"Remember anything at all?"

He shook his head. "Nothing, for the most part," he said. "But what little I recall makes no sense; only sensations...incoherent flashes..."

He spoke with a noticeable accent, one that Cris was unfamiliar with. Probably from South America or something. There was quite the number of South Americans in Spain, including some of his own friends, like James Rodriguez.

Because Cris had left his door open, Gareth followed him inside, curious to see who this "someone" he mentioned was. The Welshman looked back and forth between the two. "Who's this, your new boyfriend? I thought you swore off relationships after what happened with Irina and Badr."

"He's just a guest," Cris retorted as the stranger stared at Gareth in bewilderment. "Ignore Gari, he's a bit of a prat."

"What did he say?" Cristiano's guest asked. Apparently he did not understand Gareth's question, which was asked in English.

"Nothing important. Like I said, you can ignore him."

The stranger nodded. "I will."

"Hey, don't listen to him!" Gareth protested, this time in Spanish as he was pushed back into the hallway.

"I didn't invite you in."

"You just left the door open!"

~X~

"But really, who is he? You're not the sort to let someone stay the night," his neighbour asked once they were outside.

"I don't really know."

"You don't really know?" Gareth asked, alarmed.

"Last night, when I fell into the ditch, he was the one who helped me though he was freezing in the rain," explained Cristiano. He wanted Gareth to understand the guilt he would have felt if he abandoned the stranger who saved him even if he was blue with cold. "He's lost his memories. I'm going to take him to hospital."

"'Lost his memories'? Are you crazy, Cris? What if he's some criminal, pretending to have lost his memories so he could slit your throat and steal your money at night?"

"He saved me from a muddy ditch," Cris said defensively. He did think about that scenario, but it was too unlikely. "Also, he was ill last night, so he wouldn't have been able to rob me anyway."

"You're reporting this to authorities, aren't you?" asked Bale, scratching his head.

"Of course, after his clothes are dry. He's not going anywhere dressed like that, and he seems sort of exhausted."

"You seem sort of exhausted," said Gareth.

"I pull all nighters all the time."

"I guess I'll let you sort that one out, then."

"Sure. See you around." Cris gave a little wave as the Welshman crossed the yard back to his own house.

"If you need me, just give me a call!" Bale yelled over his shoulder.

Cristiano closed the door. Gareth was a good and loyal friend—he could always count on him to have his back. However, there were a few things that crossed the line. He did not want to be reminded of either Irina or Badr right now.

"Sorry about that," he explained to his guest, who was still puzzled about the whole exchange. "My neighbour is a bit nosey."

"Cris." It was the first time the stranger said his name.

"Yes?"

"That's your name, isn't it?"

"Well, it's actually Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro, but no one calls me that."

"It's a nice name," the other man commented, which made Cris' Sunday a tad brighter.

"Well, the police can probably help find out yours," he reassured. He noticed the wistful look in the other's face when he spoke of Cris' name.

"The police?"

"If you've been wandering around with amnesia, you're probably on a missing persons list by now," he explained.

The stranger pulled off the sheets, struggling to get out of bed. "Then shouldn't we be going?"

"Hold on, no need to strain yourself," said Cris, lending his arm to the other to help him sit up. "Your clothes aren't dry yet, so you'll have to deal with wearing my stuff for a bit longer. You need anything in the meantime?"

The guest tipped his head to the side, hesitating for a moment in thought. "I'm thirsty."

Cris nodded. "I'll get you a glass of water. Also, you need to eat something."

He decided that he should serve his guest breakfast. Something light, so he won't upset his stomach. Cristiano could spot the malnutrition on the manlet.

~X~


	5. Investigation on Foot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation begins. Introducing Marcelo, Pepe, and Juanfran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh crap, my chapters are growing longer! The action should start picking up around chapter 7, so please, stick around!

The stranger had changed back into the white shirt and trousers he wore last night, scrubbed free of mud by Cristiano. He flipped though a magazine that lay on the table at which he sat. Glancing back to look at the cover, he asked, "Is that you?"

On the magazine's cover was a picture of Cris. The Portuguese man posed confidently dressed in nothing but his underwear, the print on the waistband reading, "CR7." It was only one of several other magazines on the table that featured him on the cover.

"I work in the marketing department for a fashion company, and that sometimes means being a model," Cris explained. Being naturally handsome had its perks; a large portion of his income came from doing various photoshoots.

This earned a raised eyebrow from his guest. "A model?"

"Do you not know what a model is?"

The stranger was silent for a moment, thinking of what to say. "If I remember correctly, a model is a representation of a proposal, structure, or design, isn't it?"

It was odd how the man could remember some facts but forget others—gaps in his memories, and then one gaping hole were any personal memories should be. "That's one type of model. A model can also be a person who is paid to show off clothes so other people will buy them."

"So people photograph you to put on magazine covers and it makes people buy underwear?" The stranger seemed surprised by this.

"Yeah, because people like it. It's all about marketing."

He looked back down at the magazine cover in fascination as if there were something amazing about the whole thing. Thinking about it, modelling might seem bizarre for someone first learning about it.

"If wearing clothes is what you have to do as a model, then aren't there a lot of people also doing the same?"

"Well, you have to be good looking to get a job as a model, which means I have to work out all the time after work," said Cris.

"And you are good looking?"

"Am I?" He knew the answer to this; he'd spent hours observing and admiring himself in the mirror. Gareth already told him that if he didn't already have a girlfriend (fiancé now), he would date Cris. And he also had quite the share of relationships in the past, including some with more famous people such as his beloved (former beloved now) Irina.

"I wouldn't know," the stranger replied, which Cris had to admit, was disappointing.

"You ready to leave?" he asked, already moving toward his closet to grab a jacket and his keys.

The guest nodded. He quickly shifted through the magazine once more, and then set it back down on the table. Then, he got up and came over to where Cris stood.

"It's cold outside, so you might want to wear this." He handed the stranger another jacket from his closet.

"Thanks." The shorter man slipped it on. Of course, it was too big for him, but at least the extra length of the sleeves would protect his fingers from the cold.

"Let's go."

~X~

"So this is where you first saw him?" asked Pepe. They were at the bus stop in front of the library where last night's incident took place.

Cris nodded. "He just stood there, waiting, even if there were no more buses for the night."

Képler "Pepe" Laveran Lima Ferreira was originally from Brazil, but had moved to Portugal from a very young age. While his Portuguese carried a bit of an accent, he had made an effort to speak more similarly to the Europeans. After graduating from school, he found himself moving to Spain, eventually becoming a citizen and a police officer. In the past, he had problems with using excessive force, but he had calmed down much since.

Marcelo Vieira da Silva Júnior, on the other hand, came straight from Brazil. They both patrolled his neighbourhood once every while, and he had hung with them when they were off duty several times. Cristiano was sure that Inspector Torres had chosen Pepe and Marcelo because of their connections to him.

They crossed the street, following Cristiano's footsteps from last night. In the ditch where he had fallen in was a large mound of mud that Cris had displaced when he was trying to escape.

"And that's where you were stuck, right?" Pepe questioned.

Cristiano nodded. "Wouldn't have been stuck there if a crime wasn't commuted last night!" he muttered under his breath.

"Pepe, how does it feel knowing that the Anti-Defamation League determined that you're a symbol of hate?" asked Marcelo.

"Feels wonderful," Pepe responded, his biting sarcasm flying right over Marcelo's head. "I love the fear in people's eyes when they see me."

"Is that why you're sometimes really violent when we arrest people?" asked Marcelo.

"I was being sarcastic, you dolt!" said Pepe.

"Careful; I hear the government has been cracking down on memes," joked Cris. While Marcelo lacked an ounce common sense, he was apparently much more intelligent than he let on; or that was what he heard from Pepe, anyway.

"Pepe, look!" yelled Marcelo. He was pointing at a pothole a few metres away, lid strewn ajar. The three gathered around the pothole, peering into the darkness of the sewers underneath. It was still flooded from the rain. "That's dangerous; somebody might fall in and drown!"

"If it hasn't happened yet. Was this open last night?" asked Pepe.

"I'm not sure; I wasn't really paying much attention after what happened," confessed Cris. "Do you suppose someone could've gone down there?"

"Or maybe someone left the sewers through here," Marcelo suggested.

"What do you mean?" Pepe asked.

"'Wandering around in darkness for what seemed like an eternity,'" said Marcelo. He was repeating what the stranger had recounted of his experience last night. "Could he have been in the sewers?"

The amnesiac apparently didn't remember much of what happened to him; only that he was in a very dark place and somehow, he wound up wandering the outskirts of Madrid, far from the city centre.

"Could be, but if that's the case, how did he end up down there?" Pepe mused, scratching his chin. "It's also flooding, so he'd have to escape before the rain."

"Maybe Juanfran can tell us something," Cris said.

"Juanfran?"

"The librarian," he explained. "I came here to return some books, remember? And the bus stop is right in front of the library."

"True," said Pepe. He tuned to his partner, who was still staring down into the pothole. "What do you think, Marcelo?"

The other policeman looked up. "I think that's a good idea."

~X~

Juan Francisco Torres Belén, or Juanfran, wasn't just a librarian; he also owned a large collection of antiques, which he displayed next to his book collection. A large fraction of his books themselves were antiques. While he didn't normally allow people to borrow the old books, he made an exception for his most frequent visitors, including Cristiano.

Not that Cristiano was interested in antique books to begin with. He was more interested in the extensive section dedicated to vintage automobile magazines, same dating as far back as the fifties.

And Cris really loved cars. Not as much as he liked looking good, but still.

In return for borrowing magazines, he had to listen to Juanfran's terrible, angsty writing, from the perspective of a tortured poet from the Spanish Civil War.

The little bell on the door gave a familiar little jingle as he opened it. Inside, Juanfran was sitting at the front desk, flipping through a book of poetry. Crumpled papers were strewn carelessly all over the old wooden desk. At the sound of the bell, Juanfran set down his book and looked up.

"Cristiano!" welcomed Juanfran. "Back already?"

"Well, I'm helping these two with an investigation." He gestured toward Pepe and Marcelo, who were just walking in through the door.

Pepe stepped forward. "You're 'Juanfran,' aren't you?"

Juanfran smiled nervously, eyes darting between the two policemen. "Yes, officers. How may I help you?"

"We would like to ask you if you saw someone standing at the bus stop outside this library last night," said Marcelo.

"Last night?" Juanfran frowned. "I wasn't paying attention much to what was outside; it was pouring. However, the person whom you are asking about might have come in here. Could you describe to me who you're looking for?"

"Uh, short, wearing all white, dark hair," said Cristiano when Pepe looked to him to describe the stranger.

He nodded vigorously. "Oh yes, I do remember him. Tiny lad, sort of suspicious. He was the last person who came in before Cristiano here last night," Juanfran said, glancing over at the policemen in alarm. "Is he a criminal? Is that why you're looking for him?"

"No, just a missing person," Pepe reassured. "When did he come in last night?"

"A little before the rain started. He left a few minutes before Cristiano came in."

"That would be around 9:00 then," said Cris. He had gone straight to the library after work so he still remembered the time he'd visited.

The librarian continued, "He looked really confused and wouldn't stop talking to himself, so I thought he was a junkie. I told him to leave if he wasn't interested in books, and to be honest, I didn't want a junkie handling my antique collection!" He gestured to said collection, which was easily tens of thousands of euros.

"So you booted him?" asked Marcelo.

"Well, he seemed clueless, so I told him if he waited at the bus stop he might find a ride downtown. No buses actually come here that late, but I thought he was tripping and I just wanted to get rid of him," Juanfran explained.

"That's okay. I thought he was high at first, too," confessed Cristiano.

"That makes two of you," Pepe remarked. He finished writing the last of his notes down on a notepad. "Is there any other information you can give us?"

"Not that I can think of."

"Thanks for the information, Juanfran," said Marcelo.

Juanfran nodded. "Good luck with your investigation. And do visit sometime."

They headed back out, continuing with their investigation. When they failed to find anything else of note, they drove back to report to Inspector Torres.

~X~

"So you don't remember anything at all?" Doctor Luka Modric asked the man who sat in front of him.

He shook his head in the negative. "I do remember flashes...sensations... But I don't know what they mean. They feel disjointed, as if they don't belong to me."

"Can you describe to me these sensations?" Luka pressed.

The man paused for awhile, thinking of a way to describe what seemed incoherent to him. "For example, I remember the blue sky, but I don't know the...the context...behind this memory."

"Can you name me the eight planets in order?" asked Modric as he scribbled down his observations.

"The eight planets?" The amnesiac remained silent for a moment before replying, "Can I have a reference?"

"A reference?"

"A picture, perhaps," he suggested.

Luka pulled up his tablet and searched for an unlabelled diagram of the solar system. "Will this work?"

The amnesiac furrowed his eyebrows in concentration, studying the image for a bit. "Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn...Uranus, Neptune." He spoke slowly, occasionally stalling in between.

"There seems to be a connection between the images and your ability to recall facts," said the doctor. "Can you try to remember when you might have seen these pictures? You must have seen them before."

Again, his patient shook his head.

"Retrograde amnesia," Modric surmised, writing down more notes on his clipboard. "Oddly enough, your semantic memories are intact. This is the first case that I've encountered where episodic memory was affected while the rest of your declarative memory remains. In fact, it almost seems biologically infeasible. Perhaps your brain scans will reveal something; please wait here."

The Croatian doctor left the office to fetch the brain scans. His patient, while mostly physically fine, was a bit malnourished. It would help him to put on a bit more weight. There were no physical injuries aside from a few bruises, the most notable ones around his wrist. The shape the bruises were in suggested that tight restraints had been used on him; that alone made it possible that he was dealing with a criminal case.

~X~

He was in the middle of analysing the available scans when Inspector Torres of the Madrid Police Department entered the room. It was the inspector who had assigned him to work with the amnesiac that morning.

"Doctor Modric," he greeted. "How's your patient?"

"No sign of concussion, or any head injuries—bruises, bumps—for that matter. There's no physical damage that suggests that trauma or an infection could be behind his memory loss," the Croatian doctor reported. "His brain functionality is not abnormal, aside from lack of activity in the medial temporal lobe and midline diencephalic structure. But there's no damage to those regions, per say. We're at a complete loss to what had happened."

Now Torres was unsure what the medial temporal lobe was, but he was sure that it had something to do with memories. "I'm not a doctor, so you'll have to tell me what that means."

Luka struggled for a while in coming up with a way to explain his findings to Torres without using too much scientific jargon. "His memory is not completely lost. You see, episodic memories, that is, memories about events that happen in your life, are extremely important in the recollection of facts. He can still remember certain facts, like what the names of planets in order are, because a lot of his episodic memories are still in tact."

"But then why can't he remember anything about himself then?"

"The problem is that while he can remember the critical events needed to recall these facts, what he seems to be unable to do is to recall any sort of personal memory that would give him a hint of who he is."

"Can that even happen?"

"I'm completely surprised myself. This sort of thing never happens. It's unnatural!" Luka exclaimed.

"Unnatural?" Torres echoed.

"It's almost as if his memory erasure is...artificial."

A silence passed between them.

There were still many things about the human brain that were still beyond comprehension, things that the deepest of human knowledge could not explain. For his memory to be altered in such an unnatural, seemingly infeasible way was...unsettling. At least it was to Luka. He wasn't sure if Torres could understand the impact that it would have to the scientific community if that were true.

"Did your end of the investigation lead anywhere?" asked Luka quietly.

"Yes. In fact, that's what I came here to tell you. We've searched our missing persons database using his facial scans, and there's only one person whose profile matches," Torres informed him. The urgency with which he spoke indicated that whoever this man was, he was important.

"Who is he?"

"Without a doubt, he's Lionel Andrés Messi Cuccittini."

~X~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next: Leo's past and Arjen+Müller's present. 
> 
> Fun facts:  
> 1\. Pepe the Frog, beloved internet meme, has been declared by the Anti-Defamation League as a hate symbol.  
> 2\. The Spanish government recently tried to ban memes. It didn't work out very well.  
> 3\. Cris actually has more red cards than Pepe, not to mention the fact that he's gotten away with punching and kicking other players. Pepe, on the other hand, got red for hardly head-butting Müller.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll do my best to update this story every one to two weeks.
> 
> This is my first attempt at a multi chapter story. Reviews/feedback on my writing at any time would be appreciated!


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